“Well yeah, but—”
Ferguson killed the connection and looked at his watch. It was now two in the afternoon — which made it 8 a.m. back in the States. He got up, went to the phone booth in the back, and after dumping in a few euros punched in the 800 number of his phone card, then Corrine Alston’s cell.
“This is Corrine.”
“This is Ferg.”
“Bob—”
“Call my sat phone from a secure line.”
“Bob—”
Someone had sat at the table near where Ferguson was, so he went outside and strolled down the street. A pair of police officers — plainclothes, but obvious — strolled by, and Ferguson started to wonder if maybe Imperiati had sent someone to watch him and listen in. Ordinarily he wasn’t too paranoid about having a conversation in a public place — he knew from experience that it was easy to leave out enough details to keep most eavesdroppers confused. But now he went over to an idling tour bus and stood by it, waiting for Corrine to find his number and call back.
“I was beginning to think you forgot me,” he told her when she finally did, about five minutes later.
“I do have other things to do.”
“Drop them.”
“I can’t drop the President, Ferg.”
“Too heavy, huh?”
“What’s up?”
“The British have been watching an Iranian named Anghuyu Ja-han. His nickname is Atha. He’s bought things for the Iranians before. You’re going to have to press Corrigan to find out exactly what. He had a meeting with our guy at lunch today. Could be he’s looking for information about weaponized bacteria.”
“Can you speak up? I’m having trouble hearing you. It sounds like you’re next to a bus.”
Ferguson laid out the situation for her, explaining that if the Russian was trying to set up some sort of deal with the Iranian, that might be a reason for him to be assassinated.
“What we need is information from MI6 on what the scoop is with the Iranian, why they’re following him for starters.”
“Is that related to T Rex?”
“No, but it’s a heck of a lot more interesting,” Ferguson told her. “I’ll keep looking for T Rex. See what you can do about this.”
“What about Rostislawitch?”
“Oh yeah, that reminds me. The Italians just picked Rostislawitch up on suspicion of failing to like red wine.”
“They put him jail? I can’t hear you.”
“They’re holding him.”
“Do you want me to try and get him out?”
“No, it’s not a big deal. I think the British are trying, because they think Atha’s going to meet with him again and they want to be there. The British MI6 agent who’s working the case is rather dull.”
“Does MI6 know about T Rex?”
“Not from me, but the Italians may tell them. Then again, maybe not. Imperiati isn’t dumb. Maybe he won’t like Hamilton, either.”
21
“If you hold him, they won’t be able to meet. There won’t be a transaction. Months of work will be lost.” Hamilton pitched forward on the small metal chair, trying to drive his point home to the Italian. It was more like several days — the tip that Atha was traveling to Europe had been passed last week — but
“I don’t want a catastrophe in Bologna,” said Imperiati.
“This isn’t about Bologna. It has nothing to do with Bologna. They came here because the conference gave Rostislawitch a pretext. It has nothing to do with him.”
“The Americans had information that there will be a terrorist attack.”
Hamilton snorted.
“They believe an assassin has been hired to kill someone here and in the process he will kill very many other people.”
“The Americans don’t know their arm from a tree trunk.”
“The American CIA is not what it once was,” said Harrison. “We’ll leave it at that. Ferguson? You’re best off ignoring anything he tells you.”
“He seems competent enough.”
“I could tell you stories, believe me.”
One thing about Ferguson did impress Hamilton — he had an uncanny knack of getting people to think he was God, or at least his stand-in. Persuading the Italian might not take much, but Hamilton had seen him turn several accomplished Algerian double agents into putty. Women he might understand — the rogue was good- looking, after all. But men? He was nothing but a smart aleck.
“The decision on what to do with Signor Rostislawitch must be made by someone above me in rank,” said Imperiati. “It is not my decision.”
“Well, who is that then? How can I talk to him?”
“She — Gina Assisi. You would speak to her in Roma.”
“Great,” said Hamilton. He rose. “In the meantime, take my advice and ignore half of what Ferguson tells you.”
“Only half?”
“The other half will be the opposite of truth. So if you switch it around, you’ll be all right.”
Imperiati found Ferguson in the squad room after he finished with Hamilton. The America CIA officer was examining some of the surveillance feeds.
“Anything interesting?” asked Imperiati.
“Everything’s interesting,” Ferguson told him. “It’s just a question to what degree.”
“And so is anything here interesting to the proper degree?”
“No. If T Rex has been watching Rostislawitch he’s been very careful about doing so.”
“Why do you call the assassin T Rex?”
“It was a code name he used on one of his cases.”
“The one where he killed a CIA officer?”
“Yes, actually.”
“My superiors spoke to your superiors. They wanted to impress on us the importance of capturing this man.”
“Did they?”
Imperiati shrugged. “Everyone has matters of importance. Perhaps you would like lunch?”
“Why not?” said Ferguson.
The small trattoria two blocks away had been recommended by one of the local police detectives, partly for its discretion and partly for its minestrone. Imperiati savored both, getting a back booth and sorting through the soup as if he were looking for gems in a pan of stream sand. He poked the vegetables and beans and macaroni with his spoon, herding them to the center of the bowl, then scooped and slurped.
